With no chance of an injunction being issued against him, Rosie battened down the hatches and tried to ignore his attempts to intrude into her life. She wasn’t a kid. She was an adult. She could deal with a loser who couldn’t take no for an answer. She had dealt with far worse growing up! He was no match for any of those creeps who had tried to make her life hell on the grim council estate where she had grown up. Being attractive had never worked to her advantage. But she found that she could deal with wolf-whistles and boys circling her on their bikes and trying to get her to go out with them.
And she could almost deal with the hang ups and the text messages from Ian. But, returning to her house on the Friday two weeks after that eventful funeral, Rosie unlocked the front door, entered the house and knew instantly that something was wrong.
It was very late and the lights had all been switched off. It was the first thing to alert her to the notion that someone was either inside the house or had been inside the house. She always left the light in the hall on during the winter; it lent the illusion of homeliness and dispelled the reality of a place that was as inviting and welcoming as a prison.
With one hand on her mobile, she silently scoured the property, which wasn’t large. Just three rooms downstairs, including the kitchen, and one bedroom upstairs with a bathroom adjoining it. At the first sign of an intruder, she would not have hesitated to call the police but, having reassured herself that the place was empty, she soon discovered that there was no room to breathe a sigh of relief because someone had certainly been to the house and it hadn’t taken her long to find out their identity.
Propped up against the toaster in the kitchen, Ian had left a note warmly telling her how wonderful it was finally to get to see the inside of her house and informing her that he hoped to be back soon, perhaps when she was there so that they could try and sort out their silly differences.
Heart beating fast, Rosie scrolled down the address book in her phone and found what she was looking for. She didn’t think twice. was that because old habits died hard? Once upon a time, Angelo had been her rock. He was now her sworn enemy but Was there still some lingering feeling lurking deep inside her that she could still depend on him if she was threatened? Was her lack of hesitation some left-over, unconscious emotion that she couldn’t quantify or explain?
Angelo answered on the second ring. He knew instantly who the caller was. He had given her his mobile number and she had grudgingly returned the favour by giving him hers. What choice had she had? Like it or not, with a cottage in the equation, there might be the need to communicate with him.
It was after ten-thirty at night, but he was still working, albeit in his sprawling London house. At the sight of her name on his phone, Angelo pushed himself away from his desk and swivelled his chair towards the impressive abstract painting which dominated most of one wall of the massive downstairs room which he had had converted into a study. He had paid a ridiculously large sum of money for it, but he couldn’t remember the last time he had given it a second glance.
He realised that he had been expecting her phone call for some time. in fact, he had anticipated her getting in touch pretty much as soon as they had parted company. One gold-digger living in a dump meets one freebie cottage in its own grounds in a beautiful part of the country and, hey presto, what else could follow but a rapid response? He’d found, as the days had passed, that he had been looking forwards to hearing her flimsy justification for grabbing what had landed in her lap. Indeed, he had been grimly looking forwards to the pleasurable prospect of ensuring that she didn’t get her hands on what she so clearly wanted. If it meant paying her off, then he looked forwards to handing her a cheque, while ramming home his scathing views on opportunists.
“Well, if it isn’t Rosie Tom,” he drawled, eyes on the painting, although he wasn’t actually seeing the slashing lines and curious splashes of paint on canvas. What he was seeing was the perfection of a heart-shaped face; a full mouth that always looked as though, given the right provocation, it would part in a brilliant smile; eyes that made something soften inside him, a body that had once driven him mad with desire.
“I’m really sorry if I’m disturbing you. I know it’s Friday and you’re probably out…”
Angelo decided that she was less than entitled to any clue as to his whereabouts. “Before you continue wasting time with a long, pointless spiel, just tell me what you want to say. Or rather, shall I tell you what you want to say? Save you the bother? You’ve had a good, long think and you’ve decided that you just can’t resist the pull of something for nothing.”
“I…” She thought about Ian finding his way into the house. There was no burglar alarm and little chance that her cheapskate landlord would ever run to one. Her voice wobbled and she took a deep breath, trying to steady her nerves, but like someone suddenly feeling the aftershock of some terrible disaster her body began to tremble and she had to sit down on the cheap sofa.
Lounging back, Angelo stiffened, sat up straight and frowned. Was she all right? For a second there, he could have sworn that she was going to burst into tears. He reminded himself that this was the woman who had successfully pulled the wool over his eyes for months.
“It’s late, Rosie, and I’m busy. So why don’t you just get to the point? Am I right?”
“I’m going to see if I can get through to Mr Foreman tomorrow. I’m sure he won’t mind letting me have the key to the cottage. I…I…” Once again her voice nearly broke and she had to inhale deeply to gather herself.
“What’s going on with you, Rosie?”
“What do you mean? I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Why ring now? Isn’t this a phone call that could have waited until morning?”
“I’m sorry. I’ve had a bit of a fright…I wasn’t thinking straight. You’re right, of course, I should have waited to call you at a more convenient hour. It’s not as though I can go knocking on Mr Foreman’s door at this hour of the night. Look, forget I called. When I get through to the lawyer and I sort the keys out, I’ll call you. I know you have a vested interest in the place, and after everything I’m fine with you wanting to be there just in case I find something valuable that isn’t part of that stupid will.”
“What fright?” He fought down an urgent need to see her face. He had always been able to tell what was going on in her head from her face, her eyes. It dawned on him that that was a talent he might well have lost.
“It’s nothing. Well, nothing I can’t handle.”
“Not good enough. Explain.”
“Why should I? It’s none of your business what’s going on in my life at the moment!” And she would do well to remember that. She had rushed to the phone because some primitive instinct had taken over. One meeting with him and here she was, already acting like a complete idiot!
Angelo Di Capua was the last person whose voice she should want to hear in a time of crisis. Jack would have been more than happy to listen to her babble on about the crazy guy she had dated once. He would have offered to come over the second she told him that Ian had broken in. He knew all about Ian. But had she called him? No. Instead, her brain had gone on temporary leave and some insane instinct had taken over. Honestly. How lame was the excuse of the cottage when it came to phoning him?
“Expect me to be at the cottage some time over the weekend. Probably Sunday. If you want to be there, then fine. I can’t tell you where you can or can’t be, although if it’s my cottage then technically you’d be trespassing.” She covered her show of weakness for calling him in the first place with a virulent diatribe which didn’t make her feel any better.
“Ah, that’s more like it. Out come the claws. Have you been on the Internet to find out how much you could get for it?”
“Goodbye, Angelo. I’ll see you when I see you.”
She should have phoned Jack. Jack, who along with Amanda had packed up his belongings and fled their council estate just outside Liverpool before they had become too old or too resigned to fight the “no way out” signs.